


the angel's verbal cremation, who's ashes still burn as bright as their fire

by strawberrytaxidermy



Series: wilted [4]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (kind of spoilers it's very subtle), Body Horror, Crushes, Death, Emotional Support, F/M, M/M, Poetry, Religious Themes, Secret Relationship, Spoilers, comfort/hurt, it doesnt end well gents, reference to religion, references to death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrytaxidermy/pseuds/strawberrytaxidermy
Summary: the party horns sound at the final tug of string





	the angel's verbal cremation, who's ashes still burn as bright as their fire

**Author's Note:**

> explicit warning marked for; (subtle and brief) sexual references, somewhat references to religion, themes of death, hardly-existent themes of gore and body horror. please be cautious, and read at your own potential risk in comfort.

sadness is a loss of appetite on a pretty face. party of six, occupant on one. nothing left remains on the dinner plate once you're finally tuned in to the near-silent cries of the marble statue in the corner of the room.

let us force-feed ourselves the feeling of grief with a joyful smile and a birthday party, then once the sun sets through a broken window, then lets do it all again until our hearts stop. until the roof caves in and the ringing sound of the sirens play.

take my hand while we stab each other with endless laughter, let's make sure we apologize later by doing it all again longer. joy is forceful, joy is kind.

did the great icarus cry when his wings and his pride scorched like the sun? or did he just internalize the feeling of the burn? do our ears yearn for the answer, or our hearts and our egos as fragile as china and as walked on as the cement of a sidewalk? let's make up our own answer as we smile and type the period on the end of our birth certificates.

darling dear, looking into your eyes is twisting in my heart. so i'll be sure to look harder with a sweet word on my tongue. maybe you want to hear it, too?

let our hearts hammer, let them hear. let's inspire. inside our birdcage, we're touching the clouds.

when we read a fairy tale backwards, the internal children we keep in shackles and chains in the coldest corners of our rooms can detect the scent of the wolf and force us to grab our guns faster than we could if we turned each page in order. it's a sad thing to hear in the dead of the night, but taking the stand is easier when you aren't trapped under the heavy weight of the dirt.

the voiceless blackbird cries, his singing is remorseful. his singing is mocking. he crows like he's dying. like he's choking, the thing. maybe one day, someone kind will fix him. (but not me, of course.)

the blind dove dies. as white feathers become stationary, the world laughs in unison.

your soul is a cowardice soul, but i'm allured to your honeysuckle spirit. sweet and pretty, natural and there. you are music to my ears. i'll suckle each clover until they've wilted.

i'll be your audience, so long as you promise a monologue of promise and all sorts of lovely that hear pink and purple and feel quiet and angelic. let's preform together, there's no one watching us now. so when i sing for you in front of a crowd of ugly people, you'll sing with me.

maybe one day in the throws of night, and i emerge from this hold home out into the woods, you'll sing for me, too. all good birdies do. pretty sashes and dolled-up night gowns. we are the descendants of angels.

your voice rings small when i hear your sweet callings. i can tell that you're different from these other terrible liars. when the selfish ruler looks vulnerable, let's beg for mercy and fly into the heavens. if anyone deserves his mercy, it's us.

two is for a couple. a couple of friends, a couple of lovers. a couple of eyes, a couple of arms. two is an even number. let's get even with everyone who has hurt us before.

i feel translucent when you make my heart hammer in my chest and my stomach roll with an eager uplift and a romantic aura exuding from every part of me and i contaminate the air with obvious love fit for a child of an elementary age.

the others here won't remove your mask on this day, but you're the only one that forget to put yours on it seems. don't worry about all the rats that scatter in fear from underneath the king-sized bed now. i'll always be there to help when the dust is swept underneath velveteen carpets of the most rich color and material. if sharing is caring, what is giving when i lend you only what can be deemed the most precious and deceptively beautiful of things?

the pain of the flames and the smell of burning skin still hurts as i look up into a blue sky and see rainbows and heavens gifting. the grip of the devil is a cat scratch to the beauty we've created together. it's us (a couple, as in- two) against ourselves, and the rest of the heavy agony the "world" fractures us with.

take me for a fool, you might, but don't take me for an act. after all, it is a mutualistic duo. but it's fun, so do not taint such a beautiful painting with colors of drab and tears of heavy emotion. let's have a laugh instead, give me a smile. you're pretty when you smile.

give yourself to me. in every moment, you are mine. to mistaken my admiration for control is laughable, as you might have my name written all over the irises of your eyes but your name stays on my lips, too. let's exchange our shackles, we are both slaves to the guardians of hell. let's exchange our handcuffs and our other mental bonds, let's forget that we are nailed to the stake, baby. forget the flames consuming ourselves, take my hand.

we lay in our death beads as comedians. i can see your eyes water from next to me, i'll never stop reminding you to smile.

wasting away in hospital gowns, i cover up my silly mistakes. i forget to chew and swallow, but i force you to swallow whole the idea that not a single piece of any metaphor was moved out of place.

noticing the living room rearrangements after long of being away from home is a hard sight on the eyes, on the muscle memory. your chest opens up in surgical wounds and our hearts break in unison as my chest stays sealed shut.

as i cry, i feel my lips upturn. the campaign of the most trustworthy politician is a campaign of promise and loyalty. and leadership, too. the night was long and bitter, i can feel the joints in my hand weeping, have mercy on me now more than ever?

whatever is in my mouth, i swallow. the pride, the spit, it's all in safe (stomach's) keeping now. the taste of ashes rises much farther up my throat than the chill that makes me break out in goosebumps from limb to limb. someone, please move that delicate flower away from the sunset, it's wilting much faster now.

as i feel a strangulation around my head and the blood rushing to my head like the rate of the flies swarming the candied body, the party horns sound at the final tug of string.

**Author's Note:**

> and thats all folks. for real this time. a year and 2/3rds later and the story that wasn't/circle-jerk of edgy poetry has finally come full circle and is now complete. since it is finally complete, i think its fair to mention the idea behind everything?? which was that each story was that it was reflecting on someone's point of view. i think it was justalittlebitobvious who each part was from but that's okay. i gave one person two perspectives, because i felt like it changed a bit as the drv3 story progressed, but the other two just got one each. isn't grieving such a wonder of life?


End file.
